Night of the Hunter
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly's cat is missing, and it's Sherlock's fault. Can he prevent Molly's finding out? Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes was restless, and as anyone who knew him could tell you, when the world's only consulting detective was restless, unfortunate things tended to happen. He hadn't had an interesting case in a week or two, nothing above a five. He was pacing his flat, stomping around above Mrs. Hudson's head to such a degree that, at one o'clock in the morning, she had taken to pounding on her ceiling with a broomstick in a vain attempt to get him to quiet down. Still, he paced, and, so, likewise, she pounded. When he took to tuning his violin, somewhere around two A.M., sending discordant screeching notes echoing about the entire building, he was answered with the equally screeching notes of an elderly woman screaming, "SHERLOCK!", and a nearby neighbor cheering her on with, "You tell 'im, Martha!" At this point the detective decided that a strategic retreat was in order. But retreat to where?

His bedroom? Boring! And lonely. He had never really considered it lonely before, but it was becoming more and more so over the past several months. His mind palace, then? There was no respite to be found there. If he entered his mind palace without a specific goal in mind, he would find himself aimlessly roaming through its corridors, his mind more unsettled than ever.

The only place he had been able to find peace was Molly Hooper's flat. Her presence seemed to calm him, to distract him from everything else. Her flat was his sanctuary, and while it worked better if she was present, he hated to admit to himself that just being there, surrounded by her things, and her scent, and her clutter had a soothing effect on him. And if he hated to admits this to himself, he certainly wasn't about to let the small pathologist in on his secret. But Dr. Hooper was working a double shift, overnight, and would not return home until it ended at eight in the morning. Plenty of time to get there, relax, perhaps sleep, and leave refreshed in the morning, with Molly none the wiser. Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff and headed out into the night.

Sherlock had made similar excursions before. He liked to believe that Molly was none the wiser, but he couldn't be absolutely sure. He could pick her lock easily, and always took great care to leave the flat as he had found it. Certainly, he would have known if someone had been surreptitiously using his flat, but Molly was nowhere near as observant as he. And, on the occasion of returning home after a double shift, Sherlock was sure he could have set fire to her kitchen and shredded her couch without her noticing. On this occasion, he found himself becoming sleepier and sleepier as he neared her flat, and by the time he climbed the stairs and picked the lock, the "Molly Effect" had already taken hold. He yawned as he pocketed his set of lock picks, made his way to her bedroom, and collapsed onto her unmade bed, coat and all. But as he hit the mattress, he was greeted by a howling screech, or a screeching howl, he wasn't quite sure, as Toby, Molly's large ginger cat, fought his way out from under the detective's form and ran for the door.

For the briefest of moments, Sherlock felt a sense of relief. He should have known the cat was in the bed. The damned cat was always in the bed with his Molly! But now, the bloody cat was gone! Then, an unwanted suspicion came to mind. Had he closed Molly's front door? He had been very tired, practically on the verge of collapse. Did he push the door with sufficient force to close it? This niggling doubt led him to spring from the bed and hurry to the sitting room. The door was open! He quickly surveyed the flat, and for the second time in just a moment or two, the same thought sprang into his mind, but this time much less happily. The bloody cat was, indeed, gone! Molly's beloved, pampered, and definitely indoor cat had disappeared into the London night. And it was his fault. For a single second Sherlock considered leaving the flat as he had found it, minus the cat, of course, and leaving his pathologist to ponder what had become of her furry companion. If she deigned to question him about the mysterious disappearance, he would look down at her with a haughty expression. As a final resort, he would deny everything and demand proof! But as he was imagining this scenario in his head, he saw her gentle eyes pooling with tears, and knew that even the high functioning sociopath he styled himself could not bring himself to do it. So, yawning still, Sherlock Holmes headed off into the London night in search of a fat feline who hated his guts, and would, if granted the power of speech, smugly betray all Sherlock's secrets to his mistress. And purr while doing it!

The detective started his search in the nearby environs of Molly's flat, looking into doorways, and under parked vehicles to no avail. He was a bit discouraged, but cheered himself with the thought that he had not, at least, found a furry ginger smear on any of the nearby streets. He then found himself checking the more disreputable venues. Back alleys full of garbage and other refuse, including some of the human variety. He forced himself to approach some of the denizens, inquiring after the runaway feline. Depending on their personal bent, he was greeted by sneers, sympathy, or nasty cracks about "chasing pussy". Several of the female variety offered to help, but he didn't believe for one minute that Toby was the "pussy" to which they were referring.

Sherlock had been pounding the sidewalks, and alleys, and streets, and car parks, and everywhere else he could think of for several hours when, strolling cautiously through a dark alley behind a Chinese restaurant, he heard the threatening growl of a feline coming from a rather large and very filthy skip. The growl sounded familiar, as Sherlock had often been on the receiving end of such a sound during his visits to Molly's flat. He approached cautiously, and was greeted by the howl and spit of a scrawny black cat as it made its way rather quickly away. But the low, threatening growl was still emanating from the skip, so he approached even more closely, shining his small flashlight into the skip to be met with the angry glare of two yellow eyes, and the continuing low growl.

"Well done, Toby. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you! But, fun time's over. Let's get you home now." With that, Sherlock reached into the pile of rather fragrant refuse to retrieve the equally fragrant feline. But the cat took that opportunity to attach itself to the arm of his Belstaff, hoist itself upwards, climb his arm to his shoulders, and launch himself over the detective's head to a fire escape, far out of reach. The cat then paused to study his would be captor, licking his chops as he did so. Then he leapt to the ground and hurried from the alley, looking back over his shoulder, just once, in seeming triumph, as Sherlock hurried to give chase.

Thus began a whirlwind tour of every skip in every back alley in Molly Hooper's neighborhood. Or maybe not even her neighborhood by this time, as the cat was definitely leading the world's greatest detective far afield. The game was definitely on, but it was not Sherlock Holmes who was winning!

By seven forty-five in the morning the sun was up, and the sleepy city was giving way to the day's active pursuits. Sherlock, as well as the damned cat, was definitely the worse for wear. The sartorially splendid detective had long since given up any attempt to maintain his appearance. His hair was wild, his coat stained with garbage and smelling of same. He had a bruise on his right temple which he had sustained by contact with a low hanging fire escape while distractedly chasing Toby down a deserted alley. Or at least he had thought it was deserted until he heard somebody mumble, "Can't get a peaceful night anywhere!"

He had finally cornered the cat as it surveyed the leavings outside an Indian restaurant about two miles from Molly's flat. He may not have caught the wretched animal at all if the now filthy thing had not been intent on making a deposit of its own after relieving the garbage bin of some rather iffy looking chicken satay. Sherlock pounced at this opportune moment, and caught the animal in his arms. The cat, in a panic, relieved himself on Sherlock's Belstaff. This had not been the first time that he had held Toby in his arms on this evening, but on every other occasion the cat had clawed its way free. When the detective held the animal in a vice like hold close to his chest to begin the journey home, he couldn't be sure which of them were attracting the most attention. Or flies.

Sherlock knew he was running out of time. He had to return the cat to Molly's flat before she arrived home, and he was cutting it awfully close. He looked down at the filthy, smelly, totally disreputable looking animal in his arms, and wondered how he was going to get him de-grimed and de-scented before his pathologist returned to her flat. Perhaps he should just leave the animal there, as he was, leaving Molly to puzzle over how he had gotten that way. He bounded up the stairs, opened the door, which he had left unlocked, and stepped into the flat, only to be greeted by an exhausted, and rather puzzled looking, Molly Hooper.

"Sherlock!"

"Molly!"

"Sherlock?"

"Molly, I…"

"What the hell happened to you? And what are you doing with that awful cat?"

"Molly, I… uh...that is to say…"

"Did that thing pee on you, Sherlock? You smell awful!" Molly sniffed the air once again. "And is that chicken satay I smell?"

"Among other things, yes, I'm afraid it is."

Molly had now rolled up a newspaper, and was swatting at the several flies that hovered about the tall man's dark curls. "Please stop that, Molly. Don't you want to hear about what happened to Toby?", Sherlock asked, trying to come up with a plausible explanation as he spoke.

"Nothing's happened to Toby, Sherlock. He's fine," the small woman said as she turned to indicate her bedroom door, where a fat, ginger cat sat in the doorway. Sherlock could swear he was smirking.

Molly was now beginning to collapse with laughter. "Oh, god, Sherlock! You thought that awful looking stray was my Toby? He's not even the right shade of ginger, which you could perhaps tell if he wasn't so damned filthy!"

The cat, evidently insulted by her comments, let out an exceptionally loud screech, launched himself at Sherlock's face, and made his escape, drawing blood in the process.

Molly, through sleepy eyes, now took her first really close look at the detective. His beloved coat was stained and smelly, there was a bruise forming on his temple, a scratch on his face, and several more on both hands. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry for laughing! Are you alright?"

"I've been better, Molly. I, uh,..."

But Molly wasn't listening as she gingerly removed his coat, and studied his wounds. "And you did this for me! Because you thought Toby was in trouble. Oh, you dear, dear, man!"

Sherlock was beginning to like this as the small woman gently examined his hands, and pressed her lips to the bruise on his temple. "You look terrible. And you smell worse! Let's get you into a nice warm bath, then I'll see to those scratches."

Sherlock was thinking that a nice warm bath sounded just perfect, primarily because she would have to get him out of his clothes first. And he was not at all averse to the idea. Perhaps, if he looked miserable enough, and noble enough, she could be persuaded to join him. And then they could crawl off to bed. Preferably to sleep, at first. But who knows what the day might bring. There was no need to tell her the entire truth about his adventure. Now now, at least. Perhaps by their tenth, or perhaps twentieth anniversary.

As Molly led him down the hall towards the bath, Toby, still sitting in the doorway to the bedroom, let out his customary low growl, but the detective barely gave him a glance. Sherlock supposed that they would have to reach some sort of detente if they were going to share Molly, but from now on the bed was definitely his domain!


End file.
